


True North

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, salty language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: No one really knew exactly how soulmates worked. Some people had them, some people didn't, and you only knew which you were if you happened to look up one day and realise your soul was reaching out for someone who was reaching back for you. Except sometimes, not often but sometimes, it went wrong and you'd look up and find your soul reaching out for someone who couldn't feel you at all. And you just had to live with that, your soul reaching out for them forever. If you were lucky, the other person would be nice about it. Steve was lucky, for a given value of lucky; Bucky was a good person. But if he'd been truly lucky, the universe wouldn't have screwed him over in the first place.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For grayjumper, who encouraged me to _do the thing_ when I really wanted to write a soulmates AU, but wasn't going to because just about every possibility has already been written. Thanks for the push!

No one really knew exactly how soulmates worked. There were no fancy matching markings, no elaborate tattoos, no birds crying the name of your soulmate over your cradle when you were born. It was, at the end of the day, pretty much a crapshoot. Some people had them, some people didn't, and you only knew which you were if you happened to look up one day and realise your soul was reaching out for someone who was reaching back for you.

Haphazard as it was, sometimes it went wrong. Whoever designed the system had obviously been having a bad day.

Once formed, nothing could break the bond but death. Soulmates could close their eyes and feel the pull deep in their heart, pointing to their soulmate, and emotions flowed between them like water. For some people, soulmates were an endlessly romantic ideal; for others, the whole idea was unutterably creepy. There were countless soulmate theories and as many soulmate groups: pro-soulmate, anti-soulmate, soulmate support and, because humans were humans no matter what, there were even soulmate deniers.  

None of this helped Steve Rogers, studying to be an architect and generally going happily about his life, when he glanced across the room at the semi-crowded party and found he couldn't tear his eyes away from James-call-me-Bucky Barnes.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen him; far from it. This was Bucky’s house, the party thrown by Bucky and his housemates. They knew each other from college in that vaguely friendly way when you've no classes in common but you share a circle of friends.

That’s how it went sometimes. You could meet your soulmate, sometimes over and over, and never know it until one day your soul sat up and sang, shifted towards them as they became your true north.

At just turned nineteen Steve was young for it, but he couldn’t deny what was happening. Didn’t want to, would _never_ want to. Joy flooded him as in the space of a single heartbeat his life shifted. Bucky became his _everything_. He took two steps forward, hand outstretched, must have made a noise, because Bucky turned, saw him, _smiled,_ and it was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. Steve’s soul reached for him, a singing thread of joy stretching out, expecting to meet an answering song from Bucky, from his soulmate, to form a bond only death could break.

Instead it found only echoing silence, a void where there should have been love and light and warmth, and Steve’s heart crumbled to dust.

 

* * *

 

Even across the muted hum of the party Bucky heard a sound that didn’t belong. Something small but intense and he turned. He saw Steve, eyes wide and bright, pure joy painted across his face, and he knew what was happening. Bucky smiled; he’d seen this before. He looked around, trying to work out who Steve’s soulmate was, couldn’t see anyone with a matching look of dopey happiness, and his gaze fell back on Steve.

Who was looking right at him.

Who was looking at _him_.

Bucky’s smile faded.

Steve was locked onto him like he was waiting for Bucky to make his life complete and Bucky felt nothing.

He saw the exact moment Steve’s heart broke, the moment it _fractured_ , all his joy draining away, leaving his eyes hollow. They stared at each other. Bucky could see Steve’s agony and Bucky _ached_ for him, because he felt _nothing_ , there was nothing to answer what he knew Steve was feeling. Then Steve was turning away, looking like he might bolt, and Bucky found himself pushing through the people to reach him.

"I’m sorry." He wrapped his hand around Steve’s arm and Steve shivered under his touch.

"Not your fault." Steve rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. "It happens somet—" His voice cracked and Bucky pulled him away from the living room, away from the people.

Steve followed, not fighting him, and why would he? Bucky was his soulmate; he trusted him. He pulled Steve up the stairs, pushed him into his room, and hung a tie on the doorknob in the universal symbol of _do not disturb_. "I’m so sorry, Steve," he said softly, knowing his words weren't enough, but he didn't know what else to do.

Steve nodded, broad shoulders curled in, arms wrapped around himself. "Do you feel _anything_?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say he felt _something_ , give Steve some kind of hope, because he knew what it meant that he didn’t, knew what he was condemning Steve to. There were enough movies about it, supposed-to-be-romantic tragedies about soulmate misfires, one person doomed to be alone, their soul forever reaching for someone who would never reach back. He couldn’t. He didn’t feel it. "I’m sorry, there’s nothing." 

Steve nodded again and as Bucky watched he tried to pretend that everything was alright, tried to stand straighter, tried to keep the pain off his face. But he kept looking at Bucky, eyes going soft with longing, and then his face crumpled and he was crying. He turned away, choking out, "Sorry," and Bucky couldn’t take it anymore.

"Hey." He closed the distance between them and pulled Steve into a hug. "Hey, it’s okay." Steve fell into his arms like Bucky’s touch was home, buried his face in Bucky’s shoulder and wept. Bucky held him, running a hand up and down his back, the other hand curled around the nape of his neck. He kept talking, saying soft things, quiet things, until Steve calmed, until he pulled himself together.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t, you don't," he said, trying to pull away, but Bucky held on and Steve didn’t fight him.

"Stop apologising." Bucky kept stroking his back and Steve sighed, relaxing into his touch. "This isn’t your fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault." He took a few steps backwards towards the bed, bringing Steve with him. "I can at least do this for you," he said quietly as he sat down on the bed, trying to draw Steve down with him.

Steve resisted, pulling his hands away from Bucky with obvious reluctance. "I don’t want a pity fuck."

"That’s not what I was offering," Bucky said, smiling gently up at him as he shifted to lean against the wall at the head of the bed. "Come here." He caught Steve’s hand and pulled him down to sit between his legs. Steve shuddered and then he buried his face in Bucky's chest while Bucky stroked his hair, his back, and held him tight. "I’m sorry." Steve curled up tighter against him. "I'd make this better if I could."

Eventually, Steve fell asleep, peaceful and quiet, safe in Bucky's arms, safe in the arms of his soulmate. Even if it was only for one night. It was all Bucky could do, it was all he could offer Steve, whose life had just been ripped apart.

Not long after, Bucky drifted off, still hanging onto Steve. When he woke up the next morning, Steve was gone.

He saw him around the campus a few times after that, but Steve was careful not to get too close. Bucky respected his wishes and tried to stay out of his way.

Two weeks later, Steve was gone.

Bucky found out from Sam that he’d transferred to a college on the other side of the country. Bucky silently wished him the best of luck and hoped he’d be okay.

 

* * *

 

Steve woke up slowly, warm and safe in a way he'd never felt. There were strong arms around him, a heart beating under his ear, gentle breath ruffling his hair and for one brief moment everything was perfect.

Then it all came crashing back. The humming part of his soul that was desperately trying to reach Bucky kept coming up blank, kept finding only silence and void where there was supposed to be joy and light. Even the physical warmth of Bucky's arms around him couldn't counter the pain of that. Especially when he knew Bucky was holding him because of pity or kindness or _something_ , not because he felt anything like what Steve felt. Carefully, with the feeling that he was leaving part of himself behind, Steve extricated himself from Bucky's arms.

He made his way downstairs, collecting a knowing look from Natasha, who was sitting in the living room eating breakfast. "It's not what you think," he told her and he didn't know what his face was doing but it must have convinced her, because her expression changed, gentled. "I've got to go." He left, hurrying out, knowing he had a fucking lifetime of pitying looks to look forward to.

Unreciprocated soulmates. It even had a fancy name. Hell, they'd studied that damn Shakespeare play in first year, but the main character had killed herself at the end of it, unable to live with the pain. Steve was tougher than that, he knew he was, but he wasn't sure he could handle seeing Bucky every day while his soul reached out for him, knowing he would never reach back.

As soon as he got back to his room, he started looking up what he'd have to do to change schools.

 

* * *

 

**_Five years later_ **

Steve always knew Bucky was alive, always knew roughly where he was. Could close his eyes and point unerringly in his direction, the humming thread that thought Bucky was the other half of himself still reaching out for him, no matter the distance between them.

Some days it was a comfort.

Some days it was hell.

But every day it was there.

Late at night, when he couldn't sleep, he'd close his eyes and remember the feel of Bucky's arms around him. Steve didn't know whether to be grateful to Bucky for that night or hate him for it. It had given him a taste of what it would have been like if they'd been true soulmates, if whatever higher power that created soulmates hadn't fucked up with Steve, and made him crave it like an addict. There were some days he'd trade everything to have five more minutes in Bucky's arms. But more than that, it had given him a glimpse of what _Bucky_ was like. Faced with a falling-apart Steve, looking down the barrel of an unreciprocated soulmate, he could have run away; most people probably would have. Instead he'd been incredibly kind. Even without this broken, mixed-up mistake of the universe, Steve was pretty sure, given half a chance, he'd have fallen for Bucky.

He tried not to feel sorry for himself, succeeded for the most part (give or take the occasional bad day), and it did, in a very small way, make his life easier. He had zero interest, sexual or romantic, in anyone else. The only person he was interested in was Bucky. His lack of romantic entanglements, lack of commitments, with no need to make time for girlfriends, boyfriends, or dating, meant he could throw himself into his career.

He was on the fast track for promotion in the firm and the partners loved him.

 

* * *

 

**_Ten years later_ **

The phone was ringing. Why was the phone ringing? Steve opened one eye and slapped at the bedside table until he found his phone, glared at the numbers until they agreed to make sense. Three thirty am. He didn't recognise the phone number. "Hello?"

"Steve, it's Natasha. Bucky's friend."

He was instantly alert. He sat up, the sheet pooling in his lap. "Yes?" He didn't ask anything else, just waited.

She took a breath. "Is he alive?"

He shuddered and closed his eyes, looked inside himself where the ever-reaching, never-answered piece of his soul lived. It was unchanged, was still reaching out for Bucky. "Yes."

She let out an explosive sigh of relief.

"What happened? What's wrong?" He had no right to ask. He was _nothing_ to Bucky. It'd been more than ten years since he'd even seen him, but he had to _know_. "Natasha?"

Instead of answering, she asked, "What you have for him, does it work like normal soulmates? Can you tell where he is?"

"Yes."

"I need you here. There's a car coming for you, it's going to take you to the airport. The search and rescue team can use you. We need you to help find Bucky."

He put the phone on speaker, got out of bed. "Where are you? What should I wear?"

"We're in the mountains. It's cold, there's snow, you'll need hiking boots if you have them."

"What happened?" He got dressed, dug in the back of the closet for his hiking boots, found his thermal jacket.

"They were flying back from a," she paused, and Steve had the distinct feeling she was editing her explanation, "meeting. It was a small plane. It went down in the mountains. We need to find him fast in this weather or..." She trailed off and terror ripped through him. He had to stop and breathe. Just breathe. "Steve?"

"I'm here."

"Go wait outside. I'm going to hang up now. With you here we stand a much better chance of finding him."

"Okay."

The phone went silent. He scooped it up, grabbed his backpack and shoved his phone, wallet, keys inside, along with some bits and pieces he thought he might need, and went to wait outside. The car was a black SUV, the man driving looking very military, the plane a sleek black jet like nothing Steve had ever seen. He wondered what Bucky did for a living to rate all this, but it was a distant thought, vague. Steve's attention was focused on the curling piece of his soul that was reaching for Bucky, bright and humming. It meant he was alive. He was alive.

The jet landed on an air force base. Natasha was waiting, even more beautiful than she'd been ten years ago. She took one look at him and reached up to squeeze his shoulder. He managed a weak smile. "Hi, Natasha."

"Thanks for coming."

"I didn't have a choice. It's Bucky."

Her smile was small but filled with sympathy and she led the way towards a group of people, dressed in search and rescue gear, who were watching them impatiently. "This is Steve. He's going to tell us where Barnes is." Steve stood awkwardly by her shoulder.

"Did we know Barnes had a soulmate?" one of them asked.

"He doesn't," Natasha replied. "It's unreciprocated, so what Steve's got isn't going to be as strong as what you're used to working with." Steve kept his eyes on Natasha's shoulder to avoid the pitying gazes that were being flashed his way. "But he knows Barnes is alive and he can point in the direction Barnes is located. You can still use him to find the crash site."

After that, it was a blur. They loaded Steve into a helicopter, treating him like another piece of equipment. Natasha stayed with him. He had a feeling from the way everyone deferred to her that she was too important to be babysitting him, but she stayed with him and he was grateful. They worked their way around the mountains, triangulating as Steve pointed along the line of his reaching soul, Bucky always and forever his true north, and they found him.

He was the only one alive, lying still and bloody against the white snow. Steve's soul was desperately reaching for him; every part of Steve was screaming _go to him_. He bit down hard on his bottom lip and forced himself not to move as the team leapt out of the helicopter, as the medic wrapped Bucky's bloody arm, as they stabilised him and loaded him onto the helicopter.

Bucky was so close. So close and so pale and Steve couldn't take his eyes off him. He was unconscious, Natasha kneeling next to him, murmuring something to the medic, and he closed his eyes, curled his hands into fists. Bucky wasn't his. He was nothing to Bucky. The piece of his soul that was reaching out for him, that thought Bucky was the other half of him, was wrong. It was broken and fucked up and Steve breathed slowly through his nose and opened his eyes, staring at his hands. Bucky was alive; it was enough.

They landed and Bucky was rushed away, leaving him standing next to Natasha, staring after him. She laid her hand on his arm. "Thank you."

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the doors where Bucky had disappeared.

"You can stay until he's out of surgery. Until we know for sure he's going to be okay. I can find a place to for you to stay here on base."

"No," he said distantly. "I don't have the right."

"Steve." He turned to face her. "We wouldn't have found him fast enough if you hadn't helped us. You probably saved his life."

"That doesn't give me the right. I'm not," he let out a breath, "I'm not anything to him."

"You could still stay. He'd want you to."

Steve shook his head. "No. It's," he held her eyes, then looked away, "it's too hard," he finished quietly. "I need to go home."

She was silent, studying him. "If you need to go, I'll arrange it. I'll let you know how he's doing."

His heart leapt, because he wanted to know so badly, but... "Only if he's okay with it."

"Oh, I don't think he'll mind." She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "If you need me, you've got my number."

 

* * *

 

He got an email from Natasha, letting him know that Bucky was going to be okay. His left arm was gone, so it was going to be a long road to recovery, but he was _going to be okay_.

The sense of relief he felt was so huge, he had to sit back and just breathe for several minutes, eyes closed, feeling for the reaching part of his soul, knowing Bucky was safe at the other end of it.

He wrote back and said thank you.

 

* * *

 

Six days later he got an email from Bucky. It wasn't long, but Steve knew he would have been picking it out one handed, sitting in pain in a hospital bed. 

> _Nat told me what happened. I know that must have been tough. Thanks for saving my life._
> 
> _-Bucky_

Steve didn't reply. It was the first actual contact he'd had with Bucky in over ten years. He almost deleted it, because it hurt. In the end he carefully filed it away.

He got another one from Bucky a couple of weeks later. 

> _Hey Steve,_
> 
> _Let me know if you don't want me to write you again. I wanted to say thank you now that I'm not high as a kite. You did save my life, you know. No one but you could have found me in time._
> 
> _They're finally letting me out of the hospital, which is good because the food is shit. Nat's been smuggling me in burgers, but they're a pain in the ass to eat with one hand. They're going to rig me up with some kind of fancy replacement, but that's not going to happen right away. Got to let everything heal up first._
> 
> _I hope everything's good with you. And I'm serious, tell me if you don't want to me to contact you again. It's okay if you don't._
> 
> _-Bucky_

This time Steve replied. He couldn't ignore this one; he didn't want to.   

> _Hi Bucky,_
> 
> _You don't have to thank me, anyone would have done it. I'm glad you're getting out of the hospital. Honestly, I think they make the food bad on purpose to encourage people to get better faster. I don't know what to say about your arm. Saying I'm sorry feels like it's not enough and making a joke feels inappropriate for someone I haven't seen for ten years. So, I'm glad you're getting a fancy replacement?_
> 
> _You can keep writing me. I don't know why you'd want to but you can._
> 
> _-Steve_

Bucky wrote back a few days later. 

> _Steve, you don't know enough people if you really think anyone would have done it. I'm not going to say anything else about it, but I think I've got an idea of how hard that must have been._
> 
> _This is me giving you permission to make all the jokes you want._
> 
> _-Bucky_

Steve didn't make any jokes about Bucky's arm, but he did find himself falling into regular correspondence with him. He knew it was stupid, but he looked forward to every email. He never initiated, always waited until he got one from Bucky and then wrote back.

Gradually, as weeks turned into months, as Bucky wrote about his rehab, about the shiny silver arm they'd given him in place of his missing one, as he was open with Steve in a way Steve always found surprising, Steve thought maybe they might be friends, at least as much as they had been back in college.

It made his heart hurt, made the humming thread in his soul that wanted so much to be answered ache for what he could never have. It made him remember that night in Bucky's arms like it had happened only yesterday. But it also woke a tentative happiness in him, and it seemed to make Bucky happy, seemed to help him when the rehab went badly, when the new arm caused more problems, more pain, than it helped, and those things together outweighed everything else.

 

* * *

 

_Can I call you?_

Steve stared at the text. It was from Bucky. Before he could give himself time to think about it he texted back: _Sure._

His phone rang a few minutes later.

"Hello?"

"Steve?"

Bucky's voice was deeper than it used to be, smoother. It punched Steve right in the gut, flung him back all those years to the moment he'd realised Bucky would never be his, that he'd never be Bucky's, and he sucked in a breath.

"Steve." Bucky's voice was softer, concerned.

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." He took another breath and felt everything settle. "Hi."

"Hi. Sorry to call you, but everyone else I know is someone I work with. I need someone to talk to who can give me an unbiased opinion."

"Bucky, I'm not," he laughed quietly, because this could not be more of an understatement, "I'm not unbiased."

Bucky was silent for a long time, long enough Steve started to wonder if they'd lost the connection. "No," he finally said. "I guess you're not. But would you tell me if I was being an idiot?"

Steve thought it over. "In a heartbeat."

Bucky burst out laughing. It sent shivers down Steve's spine, made the hum in his soul light up like a fireworks display. "Good to know, thanks."

"No problem. So what idiotic thing are you thinking of doing?"

"Okay, already starting to regret calling you," Bucky said grumpily and Steve smiled, he couldn't help it.

"Shut up and tell me your problem."

Steve could hear the sounds of him settling somewhere, the rustling of cloth, and then he let out a long sigh. "I think I want out."

It only took Steve a minute to work out what he meant. "Of your job?"

"Yeah."

Remembering the black SUV, the sleek jet, the airforce base, he asked, "What exactly do you do?"

"I could tell you," Steve could hear the grin in his voice, "but then I'd have to kill you."

"Really."

"No, not really. I work for the government, I do what needs to be done and it's not always nice." Bucky's voice was calm, but frustration leaked into it as he kept talking. "I'm not sure I want to keep doing it. Everyone I work with says I'll get over it, I just need to get back on the horse, but I'm not so sure. I feel like something's changed."

Steve considered it, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Can you take time off?"

"It's the government," Bucky said dryly. "We get holidays."

"Not what I meant. Can you take serious time off? Can you afford to take serious time off? Say, a year?"

"Afford it, yeah. Would they give it to me, that I'm not so sure about."

"Tell them it's a year off or they lose you forever, see what they say. That should give you enough time to decide what you want to do."

He could almost hear Bucky thinking it over. After a minute, he said, "Steve?"

"Yeah, Bucky?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

 

* * *

  

> _It worked. I'm taking a year long leave of absence. I think Nat knows whose idea it was so next time you see her you might want to watch out. I'm going to Europe. Never been there for anything but work. You're a better friend than I deserve, Steve. Thanks. I'll email you from across the pond. I think that's right. I have no idea. Languages I'm good with, slang not so much._
> 
> _-Bucky_

 Steve smiled when he read the email from Bucky and wrote back. 

> _Congratulations. Keep me posted on how your trip goes. Don't get into too much trouble and make sure you come back. I'm counting on you to protect me from Natasha._
> 
> _-Steve_

 

* * *

 

Steve got a running commentary as Bucky made his rambling way across Europe. He spent a lot of time on walking trails, taking him high up into mountain ranges where his only company were herds of goats and sheep and the men and women that watched them. He had a surprisingly good eye, sending Steve beautiful photos he snapped on his phone, along with short emails about the things he'd seen, the food he'd eaten, the people he'd talked to.

As the months passed, there was a noticeable easing of Bucky's tension. He seemed to grow more comfortable with his arm, told stories of people's reactions to the shiny metal that were laden with humour, instead of defensive like they'd been at the beginning.

Steve wrote back, sending him the occasional photo of clouds or the ducks at the pond, but mostly he just let Bucky know that he'd read what Bucky had written, that he'd seen what Bucky was trying to say. One of Bucky's photos – a mountain at sunrise – was now the lock screen on his phone, which had seemed to amuse Bucky when Steve had told him.  

Steve kept all Bucky's emails. He knew it was probably pathetic, but going back and reading them from first to latest he could see, as clearly as if Bucky had shouted it from the top of one of the mountains he seemed to love, how much he'd relaxed.

The trip was doing him the world of good and Steve was so happy for him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky knew he was way too drunk to be trusted with a phone. Right now, it'd be safer to give him a _gun_ than a phone, but there was no one here to take it away from him.  He lay down on the bed in his hotel room and held it above his head in his metal hand, staring at it. It slipped out of his fingers and smacked him in the face. "Ow, goddamn it, that hurt." He rubbed his nose and rolled over on his side, staring at his phone for another few minutes, then dialled the number from memory.

"Hello?"

"Steve!"

"Hi, Bucky."

Steve's voice sounded fond and Bucky felt the tiniest twinge of guilt at having called him. It wasn't enough to make him hang up. It was enough to make him say, "I feel like I should let you know that I'm in Paris and I'm a little drunk."

Steve laughed softly and Bucky felt something warm settle in his stomach. "Are you drunk dialling me?"

"Not really."

"Hmmm."

"Okay, maybe. I wanted to talk to you and I happened to have had some wine because I'm in Paris. It's mostly a coincidence."

"Of course it is."

"What are you doing?"

"Making dinner."

"What are you making?"

"Spaghetti."

"Will you make me spaghetti?"

There was a pause and then Steve asked, sounding amused, "How drunk are you?"

"Maybe pretty drunk."

"Well, if you remember then yes, I'll make you spaghetti. Sometime."

"You're a good friend." Steve was better than a good friend. Bucky thought Steve was maybe the best friend he'd ever had. Steve laughed softly again and Bucky curled around the phone, wishing Steve was here, wanting to curl around him. Part of him knew those weren't _friend_ thoughts but even drunk he ruthlessly shoved the knowledge away. Bad enough he'd made Steve be his _friend_ , knowing what Steve was living with. He wasn't going to inflict anything else on him.

"Steve?"

"Yes?"

"Is it okay that we're friends?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it fair to you?" Sober, he'd never have asked the question. Now? He had to know. He had to know that this was okay.

Steve sucked in a breath. "Bucky, I don't think you really want to have this conversation. You're drunk and—"

"If I don't have it now I'm never going to have it," he said bluntly and kept going before Steve could stop him. "I feel like maybe it's not fair to you. Like you don't have a choice, because some magic power or higher being or whatever it is that pairs up soulmates screwed up."

He could hear a chair scraping across the floor, tried to picture Steve dropping to sit in it, tried to imagine what he looked like now based on the Steve he'd known at college. "I've got a choice, Bucky." He paused, then went on in a quiet voice, "I'm not going to say it's not hard sometimes, being your friend, but don't ever think it's because I don't have a choice."

"I'm sorry it's hard." Bucky was hit by a wave of sadness and all he wanted to do was hug Steve, to hold him like he had that night. "I'm sorry it's broken. If I could go back in time and make it work, I would."

"I know," Steve said softly and warmth washed through him, knowing Steve believed him. "What time is it over there?"

"Around three am. Maybe four. The numbers on the clock are fuzzy."

"You should go to sleep. I don't know what you're going to regret more: this phone call or the wine."

Bucky kicked at the covers until he could climb under them and hit the switch to turn off the lights. "Will you keep talking to me?"

"Yeah, Bucky, I'll keep talking to you."

Bucky drifted off to sleep with Steve's voice in his ear.

 

* * *

 

Steve could tell when Bucky fell asleep; it didn't take long. His heart felt like it might shatter— _I'm sorry it's broken. If I could go back in time and make it work, I would—_ but hearing Bucky's voice had made his soul sing. He stayed on the line, listening to Bucky breathe for another minute, then hung up and put his head down on the table.

It had been easier before Bucky had come back into his life. It had been so much easier. He wouldn't trade _easy_ for his chance to be Bucky's friend. _Friend._ He wanted to laugh, but if he started he wasn't sure he'd ever stop. He loved Bucky, had loved him since the night his soul had reached out for him and found nothing waiting, but there was more now. Just like he'd predicted all those years ago, he'd already loved him and still he'd fallen for Bucky.

He loved him because of that humming thread in his soul, because Bucky was his true north, that he could never stop reaching for, and he loved him all on his own, just because he was _Bucky_. 

Shaking his head, he got up to try and salvage what he could of dinner, determined to put it all out of his mind.

 

* * *

 

He got a brief email from Bucky the next day—from the typos he could tell Bucky was hungover—saying he was sorry if he'd said anything he shouldn't have. Steve wrote back and told him it was fine, but that he presumed this meant Bucky wasn't holding him to his promise to make him dinner.

They fell back into their usual routine: light emails, photos of interesting things Bucky had seen. Bucky didn't call him again. Steve tried not to be disappointed.

Things continued as normal between them until Bucky was ready to come home.   

> _Any chance you could put me up for a few nights? I gave up my place when I left the country and I need somewhere to stay. If this is going to be too hard for you, I expect you to tell me.  
>  _
> 
> _-Bucky_

It took Steve's breath away. He had to go for a walk and clear his head before he could answer. The thought of Bucky here in his house was...Steve couldn't even imagine it. But he was always going to say yes, even though he knew how hard it was going to be. It was also going to be amazing to see him happy and healthy, since the last time he'd set eyes on him he'd been unconscious, half-dead and covered in blood.

Bucky was, leaving everything else aside, his friend. He could stay as long as he needed. 

> _Of course I can put you up for as long as you need. You're going to have to get here on your own, though. I don't have a car. Send me your flight details so I know when to expect you._
> 
> _-Steve_

 

* * *

 

Steve knew approximately when Bucky should be getting here. The place was spotless, he'd set up the guest room, and he was sitting in the comfy chair, trying to read.

It wasn't going well. He'd been staring at the same page for the past ten minutes and he still had no idea what it said. He sighed and put his book down, closed his eyes and pointed down the humming thread of his reaching soul. Bucky was somewhere between here and the airport. _Not exactly new information_.

The knock on the door made his eyes snap open and he jumped to his feet. He was smiling as he opened the door. Bucky looked tired but he was smiling back, his metal arm barely visible under his long-sleeved shirt, and Steve took in all the things he hadn't noticed when they'd pulled him off the side of a mountain. His hair was long, just brushing his shoulders, curling around his chin. The years had agreed with him, making him broader in the shoulders, in the chest, and his fine features had roughened, giving him a look of quiet strength. "Hey, Bucky, come in." He met Bucky's eyes and both their smiles faded as Bucky's eyes went wide.

Steve’s soul was reaching for him, just as it always did, a singing thread of muted love stretching out, expecting to find only echoing silence. Just as it always did.

Not this time.

This time it found an answer.

This time, it found Bucky's soul reaching back, love and light and warmth reaching for Steve, sliding into Steve's soul to lock into place, forming an unshakeable, unbreakable bond that could only be severed by death.

That’s how it went sometimes. You could meet your soulmate, sometimes over and over, and never know it until one day your soul sat up and sang, shifted towards them as they became your true north.

Steve could feel _everything_. An explosion of joy, Bucky's joy, washed through both of them and he staggered backwards, had to grab the door-frame to keep from falling and then Bucky was there. Bucky had him. Bucky was pushing him back, kicking the door shut, wrapping his arms tight around him, was saying his name over and over again.

"I can feel you. Bucky, I can feel you," Steve whispered. "What's happening?"

"I can feel you, too. I can feel what you're feeling. I can, you're in here." He pressed a hand over his heart. "And I'm in here." He flattened his palm over Steve's heart. "You're my soulmate."

"But I'm not." Steve blinked hard. "We're not."

Bucky gently cupped Steve's cheek. "You are. We are." A surge of joy flowed between them. "Feel that?" Steve nodded. " _We are_. I'm just late. I'm so late. I guess I wasn't ready, I wasn't the right Bucky yet." He tipped his forehead to rest against Steve's and Steve's breath caught in his throat. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I made you wait so long."

"But…" Steve was backing away. It had been so long. Steve knew, he _knew_ , Bucky wasn't his, would never be his, he would never be Bucky's. He hit the wall and slid down to the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, staring up at Bucky. He could _feel_ Bucky, feel a surge of _love concern worry love_ pulse between them, and Bucky dropped to his knees, caging Steve with his body, straddling Steve's thighs. He caught Steve's face between both of his hands, the metal of his left cool against his skin.

"You get to have me. I'm yours. You're my everything. I promise. Steve, I swear." Everywhere Bucky was touching him felt like home, the curling stretch of his soul had finally met Bucky's soul reaching back, he could feel Bucky, knew Bucky could feel him, and still he couldn't quite believe. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

Dumbly, Steve nodded and Bucky lowered his head. Steve's heart was beating so fast he could barely breathe. Bucky hesitated, searching his face, before finally kissing him, lips soft and achingly gentle, thumbs brushing over Steve's skin. Electricity rocketed down Steve's spine and he curled his fingers in Bucky's shirt and _let go,_ everything he felt for Bucky, all his love, all his need, surging between them. Bucky's eyelids fluttered and he breathed Steve's name as Steve pressed up into the kiss. He could feel Bucky kissing him, could feel _himself_ kissing Bucky, nipped experimentally and felt his own teeth against Bucky's lips. Gasping, he pulled back. "Bucky."

Bucky's eyes were bright, his lips curving in a warm smile, and he brushed his knuckles down Steve's cheek. "Hi, Steve."

"We're soulmates."

"We are." Bucky's voice was soft. "It just," he kissed Steve's forehead, the bridge of his nose, each cheek, "it just took me a long time to catch up." Steve pressed his forehead against Bucky's shoulder and laughed as he let himself believe, truly believe, and love washed through him, through both of them. Bucky cupped the back of his head, kissed his hair. "I've got a lot of lost time to make up for. I promise, I promise I'll make it up to you."

"There's nothing to make up for." He turned his head to kiss Bucky's neck, ran his hands down Bucky's back. It was like a miracle, he was touching Bucky, Bucky was warm and solid under his hands, was leaning into his touch like Steve was home.

"I can feel it now. I know what you've been alone with for all these years." Bucky's metal hand slid down his back, pulling him closer, and Steve was wrapped in him, safe in his arms, and even the regret slipping off Bucky couldn't touch the wonder of that. "Steve..."

"You're here now. I have you now." He leaned back, just enough to see Bucky's face, knew Bucky could feel his love. "I _knew_ I'd never have you, knew you'd never have me, and I was wrong. You're here." He touched Bucky's face, traced the line of his cheek. "That's all I need."

"Maybe so, but I'm still going to make it up to you." Bucky turned his head to kiss Steve's finger, gently nipped the tip, then caught Steve's hand and kissed his palm. "I can be very creative."

"I'm not going to argue with you." Steve smiled and folded his fingers over Bucky's, shivering slightly at the _love light warmth heat_ flowing into him. "But Bucky? You were worth the wait."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
